and talk to him every day. One day he was missing. He had been
supposed to be sick or asleep for several hours, for apparently lie
lay in bed, and was lying very still. But that was only an ingeniously
constructed dummy. The young man himself had made a hole under his bed
into an adjoining vacant cell, the door of which stood open. He had
crawled through his hole, come out of the vacant cell door, and gone up
to the prison garret, where he found some old pieces of rope. These he
tied together, and getting out at the cupola upon the roof, he managed
to let himself down on the outside of the building and got away. He was
never recaptured. The Warden said that some one must have told him about
the adjoining vacant cell, with its always open door, else how would the
young man have known it?

I was accused of imparting this valuable information, and I suffered
four weeks' confinement in that horrible dungeon on the mere suspicion.
This made ten weeks in all of my prison-life in a hole in which I
suffered so that I hoped I should die there.

One of the prisoners was a desperate man, named Hall. He was a convicted
murderer, and was sentenced for life. He too, worked about in the prison
and the yards, dragging or carrying a heavy ball and chain. When bundles
of snaths were to be carried from one shop to the other in the various
processes of finishing, Hall had to do it, and to carry his ball and
chain as well, so that he was loaded like a pack-horse. No pack-horse
was ever so abused.

Of course he was ugly; the wardens and the keepers knew it, and
generally kept away from him.

I talked with him more than once, and he told me that with better
treatment he should be a better man. "Look at the loads which are put on
me every day," he would say; as if this ball and chain were not as much
as I can carry; and this for life, for life!

One day when Hall and I were working together in the prison, Deputy
Warden Morey came in and said something to him, and in a moment the man
sprung upon him. He had secured somehow, perhaps he had picked it up in
the yard, a pocket knife, and with this he stabbed the Warden, striking
him in the shoulder, arm, and where he could.

Morey was a man sixty-five years of age, and he made such resistance
as he could, crying out loudly for help. I turned, ran to Hall, and with
one blow of my fist knocked him nearly senseless; then help came and we
secured the mad man. Morey was profuse in protestations o